Sylvia Kristel - Undressing Emmanuelle

For Arthur

Amsterdam, 2005

Bessel Kok is a major businessman. It shows: he has presence, composure, style and a keen eye. Hes a chess fanatic like my father, and a connoisseur of fine flesh and lovely women. His wife is young and ravishing, he has the pot belly of a gourmand, and his dream is to become President of the World Chess Federation.

He is also generous and as luck would have it a nostalgic fan and kind patron of little old me! I met him a few years ago at a smart dinner after a private view. He kindly invited me to the Karlovy Vary Film Festival in the Czech Republic, of which he was a sponsor. Bessel has become a thoughtful and protective friend.

This summer he offered to subsidise me.

Why?

I will provide you with financial support for a few months, so you can devote yourself to your own project.

What kind of project?

A book.

A book?

The story of an ageing Dutchwoman, a former goddess of love, in fragile health and living in a tiny apartment He laughed, adding: Give it some thought

*

The sun was shining brightly on the Amsterdam canals, and life was cutting me some slack. My mind roamed freely in my convalescing body I had time to live, to think. My pale skin soaked up the sun, turning more golden by the day and slowly showing up a scar on my left arm. Four white spots came gradually into relief, each smaller than the last.

Give it some thought Bessels words kept running through my mind, refusing to fade.

I couldnt take my eyes off this scar of mine. So old. Forgotten. Four spots, like a secret code, the code of my childhood, of my life perhaps. A code I had never tested.

But now I had to; it was time.

I phoned Bessel in the middle of that hot summer and announced: Im going to test the code.

What?

Ive been frightened that Id forgotten everything, on purpose or because I had to, but now its all coming back, the words are on the tip of my tongue

I cant understand what youre saying.

I accept your support, Bessel! Im ready to do the book.

The last train has screeched noisily into Utrecht station, as it does every evening just after nine. Daytime was over hours ago, but night arrives only with this silence. A brutal cold snap started today.

Winter is here, thats for sure! declared a customer in the overheated hotel restaurant.

Utrecht station is enormous, the biggest in Holland, a great entangled fork leading to a huge, well-ordered platform. Travellers arrive here from all countries, for a day or a month, for the cattle market, the trade fairs, the hopes and encounters of big city life.

I walk slowly down the main staircase, the floorboards creaking despite the lightness of my tread. I am trying not to make any noise, in case the hotel is full although the lights in the lobby are off. Theres only that red light seeping in through the bay windows, lending a glow to each piece of furniture, each line, to the Chinese vase standing on the reception counter. This red light blinks on and off, banishing the nighttime dark. In the hotel the dark is never black, its purple.

The show is scheduled for ten oclock. I cross the empty restaurant; the customers must have eaten early on account of the sudden cold. I walk towards the counter. Its the end of the week and the customers have left, tired.

Im disappointed. I enjoy doing my little show. Usually the two of us do it together, its better that way we smile and protect each other. We always use the same song, Only You by the Platters. I get on my bicycle and pedal around the bar, turning in the wide aisle. I fix each customer with a perfectly neutral smile, neither happy nor sad. I stretch out one leg, then the other. My skirt flips back over the saddle and I turn my head slowly from side to side, trying to make the curls of my short hair flutter. Marianne is behind me on the rack, waving. I meet the amused eyes of the customers without reading them. I check that everyone is happy. The recipe usually takes they laugh out loud, encouraging me and calling out:

Bravo, Sylvia! Do it again, both legs together this time!

Thats how it usually turns out, but not tonight. I am alone and I wont be doing a show for anyone. I decide to go back up to my room.

The lounge door opens, letting in a patch of bright light. I jump.

Ah, youre here, Sylvia! You came. Is it only me? Come over here, Peter! Sylvias going to do her show, just for us.

I nod slowly, minimally. I cant refuse, cant say no to Uncle Hans. Im already wearing my performance outfit the short wool skirt and a slightly faded pink T-shirt matched to my tights.

Peter is still wearing his apron. Hes the sous-chef. He has a red, puffy face and large, deep-set, glittering eyes. Uncle Hans always wears the same grey suit, unironed and too short, revealing spotless white socks. His face is round. His hair is greasy and plastered back. I cant tell the length of Uncle Hanss hair. Is it long, under all the Brylcreem? As long as the hair concealed in severe buns which in the rooms at night cascades free and soft right down the backs of the women I sometimes glimpse?

Come on then! Start! Weve no time to lose, sweetheart!

Uncle Hans turns on a table lamp so he can see me better. I get on my bike and go round once in their silence, I dont want any music. I stretch out a leg, not looking at them. I can feel their gaze. Settled on my body like a boil. It bothers me and makes me feel tired but I carry on, neither sad nor happy, I will not stop. I twirl around, Im an acrobat, an agile cat, a beautiful lady. I pedal around the bar. Uncle Hans puts out a hand each time I pass, trying to catch me as if I were a fairground attraction. I skid a little but regain control. One more and Ill stop, Ive decided. That will be it for tonight.

Uncle Hans has stood up. And Peter. Theyre suddenly in front of me, blocking my circular route. They wedge my front wheel with their feet, grab my shoulders and put a hand over my mouth. I dont cry out. I knew it. Peter pulls my hands behind my back, takes a forgotten napkin from a table and ties them together, pulling hard, wanting me to wince but I wont. I stand motionless, waiting. I want to see Uncle Hanss hair come loose, to feel his sticky hands soaked with fear. Let him sweat his desire over me, exposing himself as no one knows him. I want the boil to burst. Im waiting.

Uncle Hans sticks out his thick, blotchy, pinky-brown tongue, waggling it like a hissing snake. He takes hold of my face smaller than his hands tilts it, and leans over so that his tongue can reach every part of my skin. He is slobbering, licking me slowly from neck to temple, from bottom to top, then starting again. His tongue is a thick, hot body, with a hard, pushing tip, so close but so foreign, so unknown. I dont move. I leave my hands knotted in the napkin, leave my face to be smeared with his saliva, let him do it.